


Momentary Lapse

by Oparu



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment in the laboratory, seduction, consciousness and surrender. Bo needs Lauren and takes her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Momentary Lapse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/gifts).



Sharp, metallic, like old pennies: it's not a sexy scent. Lauren's never associated blood with sex. It's part of her work often enough. Human blood, familiar, ordinary, somehow comforting is easy. It's part of her world, her work. Fae blood has other notes to it, like the fine wine the Ash likes her to be able to talk about. Blood has stories. Infections make it sickly sweet, change the odour the way vinegar or mould spoil a wine.

There's blood on Bo, and as Bo's hands run up Lauren's outer thighs, the blood is theirs: a shared staining that binds them together.

She's usually not like this. She's proper and confined, contained. She does her job; the Ash is pleased with her and lets her in to the world she loves. It's being allowed to see into the dark corners, know what's unknown. The Fae world is a wealth of biology and chemistry: mutations, enzymes, and symbiotic relationships. The magic has tangible footprints, and she follows them dancing.

Research used to be the only steps she knew. Why tango when the waltz consumes you?

Now there's heat on her neck, and Bo's dirty hands in her clean, straight hair, tugging down as they catch on her blouse.

"I need you."

People need her. Lauren is always required for something. Healing the sick, mending the injured, understanding the previous undocumented: she has work. She is necessary, just not like this.

She's a constant. She functions within known parameters. She's as mapped and predictable as the proverbial lab rat.

Except none of her rats sit back on the counter, legs wide and wanting. She shivers, a misplaced response to heat, but it's the correct one. It feels right to tremble, to press against Bo as if she's freezing when she's burning inside.

She could have stitched the long ugly wound on Bo's side, set the dislocated fingers and found something for the bruises. Lauren knows how to heal the wounded.

Instead of her medical kit and knowledge; her cool and precious intellect, Bo wants her. Bo wants the wild, rampant parts of her that defy explanation. Bo wants her to need her back.

Lauren doesn't need anyone. She's quiet and self-contained. Independence is essential. Her work would be impossible to explain to another human, and the Fae are another breed. They're not for her. She belongs to them, she doesn't covet or dream above her position.

Bo's fingers brush her breast, making the linen blouse a prison and her bra as confining as a straightjacket. She's trapped without that skin on hers.

She's seen buttons ripped on television, read of it in novels but she's never done it. She's never wanted to waste the shirt. Tonight the buttons of her blouse bounce along the floor like scattered pebbles. It'll take her days to find them all, and each one will remind her of this moment of abandon. Where she was part of the mysteries, instead of their seeker.

"You're beautiful." Bo whispers it to her like a mantra. Something to be repeated for strength and comfort.

"Not like you."

Bo laughs and nibbles down Lauren's neck. "There aren't many like me, baby. You know that."

When Lauren starts to lose herself, forgetting that there's anything but Bo's mouth on her chest and Bo's steady fingers on her thighs, she grabs the counter. It's cool, solid and everything that she momentarily is not.

Once Bo kisses her, all of that stability is gone. She could be floating in ocean, adrift kilometres from shore. There is no counter, no floor, no laboratory cabinet behind her back and no forgotten lab coat resting idly on the tideless tile.

There's Bo, and sweet, damp heat that returns caresses to soothe grasping hands. Contact is a word reserved for moments that sizzle. It opens circuits, cuts flesh, and parts ribs yet here contact is poetry. Lauren has a secret love for poetry. No mathematics or theories of grammar can find paths in forests of words the way poetry finds all the secret walks.

Bo's lips on her breast, following curves down her stomach while her hands free Lauren's panties from her hips. Pink ones, pinstriped: could she be more predictable and less sexy? Bo's confidence hangs over her like an aura and, of course her panties are black.

Of course.

Bo's stay on for the moment. Lauren's bra, white and patterned, geometric like Escher, falls to the floor to drift with her coat. It is a sea, down there after all. Lauren's shoes will sink when they fall from her feet. The left will go first, it's half-off and the right, well, that hangs on until contact sends that shock too pleasant to be electric straight up her spine.

A succubus can influence energies. She can bend them to her will. Lauren remembers writing that in her report, the way she'd remember buckling her seat belt before a car accident.

Her body hums, alive with energy. She's pushed, played taut like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master. The comparison would be laughable under normal circumstances, but now it works. It fits.

It's the only thing that does. With Bo she's not her plaything, she's part of that work of art she's so long admired. The addictive, seductive refrain of music that's possessed her without having words or being understood.

Now she could sing it.

Panting fills the percussive line, and the subtle, aching vibration of her need to be touched, to be played, to fall into the melody and become.

She's had this before, and she must have forgotten. The human mind is too simple, too fragile to hold on to that kind of experience. Just when she's sure she could think herself into orgasm, Lauren's body takes thought from her.

She doesn't climax, she becomes it. That peak of release and rebirth is the soul of Bo's gift, the core of her energy, and here, now, somewhere between the white tiled ceiling and Bo's blood smeared black stilettos, she lives.


End file.
